The booth was designed for intimacy—curved seating that forced proximity, a single candle between us. Charlie slid in first. I followed, and her perfume—amber and vanilla with a bite of warmth underneath—wrapped around me.
"Source should be here in ten minutes," she said quietly. "Order us drinks. Make it look good."
I flagged down the server, ordered bourbon for me and champagne for her. When the drinks arrived, Charlie shifted closer, her thigh pressing against mine.
"What are you doing?"
"Selling the cover." Her hand landed on my arm, fingers trailing up toward my shoulder like she'd done this a hundred times and knew exactly the effect it had. "We're supposed to be together, remember?"
"This isn't necessary."
"It's called commitment to the role." She leaned in, lips near my ear. "Relax, Marine. I don't bite."
"That's not what worries me."
She pulled back just enough to meet my eyes. The teasing dropped for half a second—replaced by something sharper, hungrier. Then it was gone, and she was reaching for her champagne like nothing had happened.
I took a long pull of bourbon and reminded myself of every regulation Heartline had about client relationships. There were seven. I'd never had trouble remembering a single one before this week.
The source arrived before either of us could do something stupid. Small man in his forties, tie loosened like he'd been pulling at it all night, nails bitten to the quick. He slid into the booth across from us, eyes darting.
"You weren't followed?" he asked Charlie.
"Just by my date." She gave my shoulder a squeeze, playing the part. "He's harmless."
Debatable.
"Make it quick," the source said, leaning forward. "Kiser's people are everywhere. Feds have him under a microscope—surveillance, wiretaps, the works. He's not making any moves. Lying so low he's practically underground."
"So he's not behind the threats I've been getting?"
"Kiser?" The source almost laughed. "He's not stupid enough to add 'attempted murder of a journalist' to his problems while the FBI's crawling up his ass. If someone's coming after you, look somewhere else."
Charlie nodded slowly. "What about Walsh? Any word on his comeback?"
The source glanced around the room before answering. "He's making nice with anyone who'll take his calls. Trying to rehabilitate his image before the Valentine's Ball. Word is he's spending money he shouldn't have to make friends he doesn't deserve." He stood, buttoning his jacket with shaking hands. "That's all I've got. Lose my number for a while."
He was gone before Charlie could respond.
"Well," she said, reaching for her champagne. "One suspect down."
"Still leaves plenty."
As we left, I clocked movement across the street. Someone in a hoodie, watching from the gap between two buildings. Male, average height, face hidden. He saw me looking and melted backward into the dark.
"What?" Charlie followed my gaze.
"Someone was watching."
"Welcome to my life." She didn't sound concerned. "Probably just paparazzi. Even we get photographed sometimes."
My gut said it wasn't our primary threat—the body language read curious, not predatory. Amateur. But worth tracking.
Back at her apartment, Charlie kicked off her heels and dropped onto the couch—my couch, my bed, my punishment. "So. Productive day. We eliminated one suspect, got a killer story, and you only threatened to arrest me twice. Progress."
"Three times."
"Who's counting?" She stretched, then seemed to remember she was occupying my sleeping quarters and stood, padding toward her bed barefoot. "I'm going to change. Try not to interrogate my furniture while I'm gone."
